


if the bible tells you so

by south_like_sherman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: "thank you lord for sacrificing yourself for our sins oh haha by the way dad i'm gay", Angst, Anxiety, Coming Out, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, I'm Sorry, Internalized Homophobia, Like, M/M, You're Welcome, also, i guess not, in church, is that even a tag, john sure does pick his moments, look at me making tags, smol john is smol, someone save John, why do I keep doing this, you may call me the founding tagger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "Mr. Laurens, would you mind taking a seat?""Jack," his father hissed, "Jack, sit down, what are you doing?"John didn't look at him. Didn't want to look at him, couldn't look at him."I'd like to say a few words on the matter, if that's alright." John could barely hear his voice over the roaring in his ears, could barely speak over the lump in his throat. But he knew how he sounded (how he always sounded)- words slick and oiled, carefully schooled by years of forced practice.Pastor Jim's lips twitched, in what might have been a smile (John didn't know, he hadn't seen anyone smile in so long). "Go on, son."orJohn chooses the worst time possible to 'come out'.





	

 

The church was stuffy, stifling in the Summer heat as light filtered through the stained glass windows in broad beams, laying wide stripes of colour across the stone floor. The service was dragging on in its usual, predictable way (no, not predictable- holy, traditional), the preacher's sallow face stretching and contorting as he droned along tunelessly to another meaningless ( _no_ , not meaningless- deep, sacred, constant) hymn. Pastor Jim, his name was, and he had been there for as long as anyone could remember. His sunken cheekbones made up just another unwelcome part of John's life.

The song drew to a close, the final organ chords echoing through the church with a hollow kind of chime, reverberating around and bouncing off the walls as the voices of the communion died away. There was a rustling of skirts and dress suits as people took their seats in the pew once more.

Pastor Jim cleared his throat, angling the small microphone balanced on the pulpit downwards slightly so it was more accessible to his tiny frame. When he glanced up again, eyes ablaze with what was surely the fires of hell (or maybe heaven- did heaven have fires? John didn't know. According to the Bible he'd be going to hell anyway, so he guessed he'd probably never find out), his chest seemed to swell to at least thrice it's usual size as he inhaled deeply, as though he were about to roar into the microphone. What he said next though, was possibly even more painful to John's ears.

"At the end of today's service," he began, his voice containing a harder, more severe edge than it had in the previous passages recited, "I would like to bring to light the unfortunate- ah, _incident_ that took place this week. As I'm sure most of you already know, Francis Kinloch 'came out', as they say. I would like to make very clear, that we do not tolerate that kind of thing in this community."

He made sure to place extra emphasis on 'that', as though the word were too terrible to even utter in the so-called place of God.

"His soul was infected by a sinful desire, which God does not condone. He made his choice- yes, his _choice_. Feeling that way about other men is certainly a choice more so than it is something you were born with. We should not pity people afflicted with this disease; they brought it upon themselves. Being a. . . _homosexual_ -" Pastor Jim spat the word out as though it had a nasty taste about it, curling it around his tongue and hurling it out of thin lips like it made him sick. "- is a punishment from God, more than it is anything else. If God wishes these vile desires upon you, you are not a person, you are not holy or good- in fact, you are not better than the demons that infect hell itself."

John tugged on his tie in attempt to loosen it, his breaths rasping in his throat and he couldn't _fucking_ breathe, if he could just get this _Goddamn tie_ , just a bit-

"Jack," his father swatted his fumbling hand away from the tie as discreetly as was possible, glaring at him from over the top of his wire spectacles. "Stop."

John inhaled shortly, giving his father a sharp nod and letting his trembling hand rest in his lap again, trying to discreetly wipe his sweaty palms on the fabric, mumbling a small "sorry".

Pastor Jim cast his gaze over the communion with a fiery kind of vengeance, as though each of them had personally wronged him. "You would all do well to remember, that God does not forgive you your sins, until you have repented your sins. God does not love your flaws, until you have fixed your flaws. God does not accept you, until you have cleansed yourself of all he may not accept you for. Francis Kinloch, was yet another example of a boy who rejected God-" John swallowed hard, taking a deep shuddering breath. The walls seemed to be closing in around him, trapping him, binding him in place and he couldn't _fucking move_ , his hands were stone, pinned to the pew and his feet wouldn't _listen_ , _no one would fucking listen_. He bit his lip. He always bit his lip. "-and if you reject a God, God will reject you. I say this now to warn any of you who might consider following Francis down this sinful path-" He bit his lip until he couldn't feel it anymore, until his entire body was numb, until his _mind_ was numb, until he couldn't feel the guilt, couldn't feel anything at all. "- for when you reach the end of it, you will not find love- you will find damnation, and an unforgiving God."

John knew what would happen next (what always happened next). His father would erase him, bury him in lies, in half truths and transparent memories until John was gone, until he was so far below the surface he'd never see the sunlight again. John couldn't- _wouldn't_ , let that happen. If he did it here, now, everyone would know, everyone would see and he'd stay on the surface, he'd stay afloat, and _God_ , he wanted to see the sunlight.

John inhaled. Exhaled. Stood, on swaying feet. Stood until he could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears (maybe church bells), until he could see nothing except for the blurred cross hanging on the wall (maybe it'd forgive him), until the world noticed him (maybe noticed).

Pastor Jim's voice trailed off, examining John with a hostile sense of curiosity, as though he were the next lamb to the slaughter.

"Mr. Laurens, would you mind taking a seat?"

"Jack," his father hissed, "Jack, sit down, what are you doing?"

John didn't look at him. Didn't want to look at him, _couldn't_ look at him.

"I'd like to say a few words on the matter, if that's alright." John could barely hear his voice over the roaring in his ears, could barely speak over the lump in his throat. But he knew how he sounded (how he always sounded)- words slick and oiled, carefully schooled by years of forced practice.

Pastor Jim's lips twitched, in what might have been a smile (John didn't know, he hadn't seen anyone smile in so long). "Go on, son."

Everyone sitting here knew him, everyone had known him since always, and he was so fucking _sick_ of always. _Ah yes, John Laurens_ , they'd say. _Quarterback, brilliant player, sings in the choir, Henry's son- a little strange, but a good boy overall_. God, he wasn't fucking _good_ , he wasn't fucking anything.

John pretended he couldn't feel his father's eyes burning a hole through his suit. Inhaled. Exhaled. Two words. Two words, that was it. Just two words (two, life changing words). Released his bleeding lip (well, he thought it was bleeding- maybe bleeding- he thought it was blood). He was done biting his lip.

"Francis and I shared many similarities. Scarily so, actually. We lived together. Grew up together. In many ways, we were not all that different at all."

John wasn't sure if it was his voice or his hands that were shaking. He inhaled. Exhaled. Squared his shoulders.

"One of the things we shared in common, was our taste in romantic partners. That is, they were masculine. To put it simply, we were both fags-" Something like fire burned in his eye, and it wouldn't _fucking stop_. A low, bitter laugh bubbled from his lips. "- and maybe we're going to hell, maybe God hates us, but I can't fucking help it, I can't fucking stop this-"

John stopped abruptly, voice caught in his throat as though someone was choking him (but they were, invisible fingers tightening, pulling, squeezing, and they _wouldn't fucking stop_ ).

His lip was still bleeding.

**Author's Note:**

> hAPPY NEW YEAR *throws confetti*  
> what better way to begin 2017 with some angsty John  
> thanks to everyone reading this!  
> (i want to explain the last line to y'all bc it doesn't make sense otherwise. basically it's john realising that even if he's not biting his lip even more, it's still bleeding, even if he ripped off the metaphorical bandaid it still stings and even though he came out it's still going to have a long lasting effect on his life in south carolina does that make sense probably not)  
> i can't write anything other than angst help me  
> massive shoutout to @kitten-with-too-many-ships on tumblr for reading this and telling me it was ok, you are the literal best  
> please come scream at me on [tumblr](http://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com/) the porn blog to normal follower ratio is still heavily in favour of the porn blogs please help  
> also the title is from [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=uAsV5-Hv-7U) I'm pretty sure y'all have heard of it  
> again thank you so much for reading!
> 
> ~ Kinzie


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